In-Flight
by Layla Reyne
Summary: Damon and Elena take a time-out from all the tension on the flight home from Denver. One-shot; post 3X19.


**In-Flight**

**By: Layla Reyne**

**Summary**: Damon and Elena take a time-out from all the tension on the flight home from Denver. One-shot; post 3X19.

**A/N**: In honor of the 3X19 – DE Heart of Darkness Anniversary, I'm re-posting this significantly revised "what if" one-shot that was originally a chapter of my Not So Near Misses series, which I removed a few months back. Enjoy ;)

**Disclaimer: The characters and other things from The Vampire Diaries are not mine. All due credit to the rightful holders.**

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You're two hours into the red-eye flight from Denver to Richmond, and you're ready to offer your first class seat to the passenger sitting next to Jeremy in the last row of coach. At this point, you'd gladly give up your plush leather seat if it meant escaping the suffocating tension between you and the vampire on your left. It's so thick that not even the wide seats and console between you are enough to cut it. And you're so tightly wound that sleep is totally out of the question.

Damon's said less than fifteen words to you since your unhappy little "family" left Kansas.

"We'll fly home out of Denver," were the first as he turned west on the interstate, driving the rented SUV away from Scary Mary's house. Followed by "I'll be back," when he left you and Jeremy at the boarding gate for your flight, only reappearing after the gate attendant issued the final call for passengers. "After you," were the last he said to you as he stepped past your row and held out his arm, ushering you into the window seat.

Since then, some two hours later, not a single word. Just his incessant fidgeting –twirling his daylight ring, bouncing one knee, and flipping through every safety guide, magazine and catalogue in the seat back pocket in front of him. At one point, he even reached over and dug through the one in front of you, only to find the same generic reading material that had already bored him.

You feel sorriest of all for the flight attendant, who would be enjoying the peace and quiet of an otherwise slumbering first class cabin, if it wasn't for Damon interrupting her reading every twenty minutes for another drink.

When he unbuckles his seat belt to get up for another refill, you finally decide you've had enough.

"I'll have one too," you say, breaking the oppressive silence.

"You're underage," he mumbles in response, waving a hand at you dismissively.

"So compel her."

You know that he's been doing it already. He exceeded the per-passenger drink limit at least an hour ago. Turning and directly meeting your gaze for the first time since Kansas, you see the flash of surprise in his clear blue eyes, so you seize the opportunity.

"Five-minutes, Damon," you implore, motioning for a time-out with your hands, invoking a memory of a time when things had been so much different between the two of you. You see the hint of a smile turn up the corners of his mouth, and if you had to guess, you'd suspect he's back on that road in Georgia with you. His posture noticeably relaxes, and yours follows suit, the tension finally easing up a bit. Nodding silently, Damon stands and walks the few steps forward to the galley. Two minutes later, you're leaning back in your seat and nursing a glass of bourbon.

It's not your favorite but it warms you, calms you, and reminds you of him, of the promise he made to never leave you. You wonder if that will hold true after the barrage of mixed signals you've been sending him lately, the past few days having possibly been the worst display of indecisiveness in your eighteen years of existence.

His bouncing knee, the other one this time, distracts you from your self-flagellation. Reaching out the arm closest to him, you set your left hand firmly on his knee, stilling its motion and causing his gaze to snap to yours. Tension rushes back into the space between you. Before he can say anything, you remove your hand, leaning back in the seat, but keeping your eyes locked with this. You give him a small smile, trying to lessen the tension once again. "With all your talk of frequent flyer miles, I never figured you for a nervous flyer. Was it all those episodes of LOST that I made you watch over the summer?"

It works. Damon can't hold back the chuckle that escapes his lips.

"You were passed out on the flight to Denver," you add, taking another sip of your bourbon. "How come you're so jittery now?"

"If you recall," he says, draining the rest of his drink and setting the empty glass on the console between you. "I _had_ spent the better part of the previous ten or so hours starring in Barbie Klaus's torture-porn home-movie. Kind of tires a guy out – and not in a good way." He grimaces as he slouches in his seat, closing his eyes.

You cringe at the memory too and turn to look out the window, resuming your self-flagellation. Not going after him then – foolishly believing that Stefan knew more about what Damon would want than you – ranks pretty high on your all-time regrets list.

You had been waiting with Caroline in the study when Stefan had dragged Damon through the Boarding House door, bloodied and barely conscious. Rushing to his other side, you'd helped guide him to the leather couch before Stefan had started barking orders, telling Caroline to get blood bags from the basement and you to get towels from the hall closet. But then Damon's hand had shot out, holding you in place as he'd whispered a barely audible "Stay." Given Stefan's ultimatum to you before you left, you suspect that Stefan had seen you brush the matted hair off of Damon's forehead, giving it a lingering kiss before settling on the couch behind him, wrapping him tightly in your arms.

"You've never wondered why we always drove on our previous adventures?" The nearness of Damon's voice startles you. Turning your head back around, you find him leaning on the center console, shooting you that look that means he's waiting for you to work out the obvious.

"I just figured you liked road-trips better. And your car is kind of awesome." You've come to adore that Camaro and not just because it's the same color as his eyes.

Damon grins at your admission, and you unsuccessfully hide a smile behind your glass. But a split second later, his face becomes serious. His eyes darken as he tilts further over the console, dropping his voice another decibel so as not to be overheard by the surrounding passengers. "What would you do if you were stuck in a room with no exit, _for hours_, with all of your favorite foods?"

"I'd probably gorge myself and wind up in the hospital."

"_Exactly_. Only I'm not the one likely to end up in the hospital..." He steadily holds your gaze, letting the full meaning of his words sink in, before he snags the glass out of your hand, swallows the rest of your bourbon in one gulp and shifts back into his seat, closing his eyes and resuming his knee-bouncing and ring-twirling.

You sink into your seat, staring out the window and taking unsteady breaths. You are a complete and utter idiot for not putting two and two together sooner. If _you_ thought the tension between you and Damon was unbearable, you could only imagine _his_ current state, shouldering that strain plus the added burden of his bloodlust.

A sudden thought occurs to you, and you whip your head back around to him. "Why is Jeremy sitting in the last row of coach?"

"Several reasons," he answers, eyes still closed but holding up a hand to tick off those reasons with his fingers. "One, it was all that was available at the last minute. Two, the little cock-blocker deserved it. And three, it was the safest place for him."

When Damon finally opens his eyes and turns toward you, he's wearing the same solemn expression he wore that night you, he and Ric returned from Duke. He'd stood on your front porch and apologized for snapping your brother's neck, needing your forgiveness and your assurance that you were still friends. At the time, you'd declined to give him either. But since then, despite his occasional snide remark to the contrary, Damon's proven that Jeremy is on the short list of those he'd protect at any cost. You have no doubt that he will spend the rest of his life trying to make up for that mistake.

Shaking yourself from upsetting memories, you ask the next most obvious question. "Then why am _I_ here?"

"Distraction. It helps too, even when comes with a heaping side of unresolved sexual tension." He smirks at you, but it does nothing to mask the resignation in his voice.

"I'm sorry this is so hard."

"It is what it is, Elena," he wearily replies, picking up your empty glasses and moving to stand.

Grabbing his wrist before you can think twice about where this is headed, you pull his attention back to you and level him with a determined glare. "Compel her to take a break at the back of the plane."

Looking over at you, his eyes narrow. "Why are you such a fan of compulsion all of a sudden?"

"Just do it, Damon," you beg, knowing he's helpless to resist the pleading tone of your voice. Snatching his wrist angrily out of your grasp, he shoots you a murderous glance before standing and walking up the aisle, pulling the galley curtains closed behind him. You worry that maybe you've exhausted your influence over him, manipulated him and tested his patience one too many times. But then a few seconds later, the galley lights dim and the dazed-looking flight attendant walks through the curtains and past you toward the back of the plane.

Quietly sliding out of your seat and moving forward, you push past the curtains and find Damon facing away from you, resting his hip against the service station as he downs another glass of bourbon and anxiously runs his other hand through his already disheveled hair.

"Damon," you call, imparting his name with all the need and longing your name carried with it when he called to you outside that motel room in Colorado.

He's on you instantly, trapping you between the bathroom door and his hard lean body. "Elena, what are you doing?" he grits out between clenched teeth. You can tell by his stormy eyes and furrowed brow that this latest emotional roundabout of yours confuses him. But the rest of his taut, practically vibrating, body also tells you that clarity is very close to losing the battle to desire. "I thought you didn't know what you felt."

"I still don't Damon, not in the grand scheme of things," you admit, and he immediately turns his head away, his elbows bending and his arms going slack on either side of your head. Grabbing his chin, you bring his face back to yours, forcing him to meet your eyes. "But right now, I can't help feeling like we should finish what we'd started."

Leaning forward, you duck your head beneath his chin and blaze a trail of hot, open-mouth kisses along his neck, returning the sensory overload he'd bestowed upon you at the corner of somewhere and nowhere. You feel him shiver beneath your lips, his arms tensing again on either side of your head. "And Jeremy is way back there, in the last row of this plane," you mumble against his skin, unable to suppress a smirk.

Damon's hands are suddenly on either side of your face, separating your mouth from his neck and bringing your eyes up to his. You inwardly rejoice at the answering smirk on his face, because it means that he's waving the white flag, that release from the unbearable tension is only a few seconds away. "Just for the record," he states, pinning you with a hungry stare. "This is you lashing out, you causing a bump."

"I know, this one's all on me," you answer, deepening brown locked on darkening blue. "Time-out, remember? Just another of those five minutes," you add in that same pleading voice, knowing it will be his undoing.

His lips crash against yours, and you're right back on that breezeway in Colorado – your hands clawing at his shoulders, his skirting everywhere across your body, the both of you frantically consuming each other. Moaning in satisfaction, you open your mouth and his tongue darts inside, tangling with your own and causing your knees to go weak. He catches you, sliding both of his hands inside the waistband of your jeans, beneath your lace underwear, and pulling you tightly against his straining erection. You grind your hips against his, wrenching a growl from him that reverberates against your lips, sending a streak of white-hot heat straight to your core.

In the blink of an eye, the two of you are on the other side of the bathroom door and Damon's throwing the lock, keeping out any unwelcome intruders. You're unbuttoning his shirt, desperate to rake your nails across his bare chest again, while he deftly unbuttons your jeans, lowering the zipper, so that he can slip a hand down the front, inside your panties to cup your sex. It's his turn to moan when he finds you soaking wet and more than ready for him. You grin against his lips, and he punishes you with a quick swipe of his thumb across your clit before plunging two fingers inside your center, causing you to gasp and buck wildly against his hand.

Craving more, your hands race down his torso, unfastening his belt buckle and zipper and shoving his pants and boxer-briefs over his hips and down his legs. You trail your fingers up the backs of his thighs and over his ass, one hand lingering on his hip as the other moves forward, grasping his erection. As you begin to stroke it, he flips your position, letting his back and head fall against the door as he thrusts into your hand. Leaning forward, you tease one of his nipples with your tongue, eliciting a hiss from him, before he lifts your head and smashes your lips together once more. His other hand climbs beneath your shirt and pulls down one cup of your bra, causing your breast to spill over into his palm. His caress causes your hand to involuntarily tighten around his length and he squeezes your breast in return, rolling your painfully hard nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

"I need you, Damon," you breathe against his lips, and you're sure truer words have never been spoken. You don't think you've ever wanted anyone this badly in your life. "Now," you demand.

His hands skirt down your sides, pushing your jeans and underwear to the floor. You shuck them, along with your shoes, before hitching one leg, then the other, around his waist, as he boosts you up into his arms. Using one hand on his shoulder to hold yourself up and the other to grasp his erection again, you position him at your entrance before slowly sinking down on his length. The both of you still for a moment, your foreheads resting against each other, as your bodies become accustomed to the intimate embrace.

Then his hands drift down your back, one coming to rest on your hip and the other on the curve of your bare ass, lifting you up and back down as he thrusts inside you. Draping your arms across his shoulders, you move with him, rocking your hips and building friction as he drives inside you over and over. As his motions become quicker and increasingly erratic, he slides one arm firmly around your waist, holding you up, and slips the other one between your bodies, down to your clit. One, two, three flicks of his talented fingers later and that release you've needed so badly is washing over you like no other orgasm before. Silencing your scream with his mouth, he kisses you deeply as he flips your position again, pressing you against the door as his speeds toward his own release. A few more thrusts and he's spilling into you with a muffled groan against your neck. You hold him there, panting together, the both of you blissfully content and wanting to savor that feeling.

Less than thirty seconds pass before there's a double ding from the speaker overhead, and Damon is suddenly pulling out of you, putting you down on your wobbly legs, buttoning his shirt and hiking up his boxer-briefs and jeans. "You've got about a minute to pull yourself together and look presentable," he whispers urgently, before snaking a hand around your neck and bringing your lips to his for another searing kiss. And then he's gone, and you're left there alone, still trembling and breathless from your orgasm moments ago. But as Damon's words echo in your head, you quickly re-dress and straighten your clothes, smooth down your tousled hair and check what's left of your make-up in the mirror.

He's pouring two fresh glasses of bourbon at the service station when you come out of the bathroom, right as the flight attendant is reentering the galley.

"Was just getting us a refill," Damon tells the flight attendant, holding her gaze a little longer than necessary to make sure his compulsion has held.

"Of course, my apologies for leaving you stranded there," she responds in a hospitable southern accent, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. A wave of possessiveness rushes through you, so you sidle up to Damon's side, coasting your fingers down his arm and lacing your fingers with his.

Damon glances down at you, giving you a satisfied smile, before turning back to the flight attendant. "Don't you worry your sweet little head about it," he drawls, giving her a wink before picking up your glasses in one hand and tugging you behind him with the other, down the aisle back to your seats.

You gracelessly collapse into your seat with your eyes closed, a mass of tired, sated limbs. You hear Damon ease into the seat beside you and place your glasses on the console. Taking a deep breath, you reach for your drink, but he covers your hand with his before it gets there, and the next thing you know, his warm breath is tickling your neck.

"Thanks for the distraction," he whispers, his voice low and seductive. He punctuates his statement with a kiss just below your ear, his tongue darting out between his lips to taste your skin ever so briefly. Your traitorous body shudders hard in response. "Now I'm tired – in a good way," he teases, before leaning back into his seat and downing his drink in one swallow.

"You're welcome," you gasp breathlessly, and you can't help but laugh at his playful smirk. Relaxing back into your own plush seat, you leave your one hand in his and pick up your drink with the other, nursing it while you take in his now still form. No more jitters, and you grin a little because you did that. You successfully dissipated the tension, for at least the next couple of hours. You both needed this time-out.

After finishing your drink, you hand your glasses off to the passing flight attendant and then lean your head against Damon's shoulder, tucking your other hand beneath his upper arm and snuggling close. He hums contentedly, nuzzling his nose in your hair before his light snores resume. Your own eyelids grow heavy, and in that last moment before drifting off to sleep, you think that not trading away your first class seat was definitely one of the best decisions you've ever made.

**THE END.**

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_**Back to TLC and FT, I promise ;) But in the meantime, you can hit review below and let me know what you thought of this one. Thanks much!**_


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